


It's Outrageous

by vamm_goda



Category: Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Bickering, Gen, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-04
Updated: 2012-01-04
Packaged: 2018-05-19 06:57:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 698
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5957938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vamm_goda/pseuds/vamm_goda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spock and McCoy bickering, for a dear friend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Outrageous

The planet’s surface is close to the low point of human comfort — No one requires any sort of external protection, but Chekov is chattering a little bit and their security detail is looking less than pleased.

This, of course, means it’s much too cold for Spock’s natural preferences, but he’s never spoken a word of discomfort as far as anyone can remember. McCoy, on the other hand, rarely has any words except for discomfort, displeasure, and sometimes just thoughtless bitching, so it all seems to work out to an even point as far as Kirk is concerned. There’s a reason he’s always put them together on a landing team, as long as it makes sense for the situation.

Being Captain is a stressful situation. He can’t imagine anyone would blame him for creating his own amusements where he can.

“Spock, I don’t understand why you won’t just wear the environmental suits.”

That eyebrow goes up, the one that’s guaranteed to rile the doctor, for all that he’s capable of the same trick when necessary. Unlike the Salute, he’s never had problems mimicking Spock there. “Doctor, it is simply unnecessary. Retrieving the suit would have placed an avoidable delay upon the transport.”

“It’s not transporting, it’s shoving my damned DNA in a blender, is what it is.” McCoy’s rubbing at his forearms, fingertips twitching, as though he’s checking for the 15th time that his body is all still 100% his. The transporter is nearly flawless in execution, dispersing molecules and reuniting them at the destination, but McCoy is fond of reminding everyone about that whole unfortunate Alternate Universe incident, like it’s a regular occurrence instead of the absolute fluke that it was.

Not that the Enterprise and her crew don’t run into an absolute fluke at least once a week.

McCoy had refused to be beamed down for nearly two weeks after that. If it hadn’t have been for the Hippocratic oath (“Most damned inconvenient oath the galaxy ever produced,” he’d grumbled as though he didn’t live and breathe ‘first do no harm’) he’d have never set foot in it again, and he still gave it sideways glances when he thought no one was watching him.

Spock, on the other hand, never so much as batted an eye.

“Wouldn’t excess equipment provide for a greater margin of error? Therefore my choice to forgo unnecessary environmental suits was the most logical decision I could make.”

McCoy blinks at him as the thought shuffles across his mind, takes root. “I’m demanding a shuttle back. And that’s not logic, that’s damned fool laziness.”

“The purpose of logic is to achieve the simplest means to an end . . .”

“Its purpose is to cut through bull, and that’s bull.” McCoy shakes his head, tricorder whirring softly in his hand. “Your fingers are already starting to lose optimal bloodflow . . .”

Which is a simple enough fix for the time being, and McCoy watches his readings change and glares. “You’re not allowed to use that Vulcan control of yours to negate my point. Green or red, that blood of yours is gonna start travelling away from the little fiddly bits to protect your organs and where’ll you be when your ear tips fall off, you consider that?”

“Frostbite rarely results in . . .”

“You’ll be a not pointy eared hobgoblin, that’s what. And I won’t be held responsible for having the first Vulcan in the fleet break under my watch.”

“That would hardly . . .”

“Do you know what that would look like on my record? Mess up all the good work I’ve done over you, refusing to wear a tuque? I don’t think so. I’m a doctor, dammit.”

That’s the moment Kirk can’t keep his chuckles to himself, he tries to bite it down but enough of a sound comes out that both eyes are turned to him, expressions eerily similar.

McCoy pivots with military precision that he’d deny later (“I’m a doctor, not a soldier,” grumbled enough times that it’s starting to sink in), finger up in a wag that had shamed hundreds of crew members into staying their whole recovery period in bed. “Dammit, Jim! I’m not gonna be responsible if you choke trying to hold that laugh in!”


End file.
